Lady Ambition's Dilemma: The Scott-De Quincy Mysteries, #3

By Jane Steen

A dynasty is at stake.

 

It seemed like a straightforward request–and Helena is used to her sister Blanche making demands on her time and fortune.

 

But the most ambitious of her sisters reveals a dilemma that may wipe out the title she holds. When tragedy strikes, Helena must reprise her role as the Investigating Lady to save a nephew she doesn't even like.

 

And what about her own future? The return of a hero from the past awakens old emotions and suggests new possibilities, while the revelation of the full extent of Armand Fortier's family secret poses a challenge Fortier himself thinks insurmountable. Where will Cupid's arrows land?

 

Join Helena as she contends with a potential scandal that's even bigger than the last one, gains new allies and an enemy with a most convincing argument, and learns a secret that may change the course of history.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aspidistra Press
• Release date: Mar 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781913810245

Jane Steen

Jane Steen has lived in three countries but is now back in her native England, living on the south east coast. She’s always had one foot in the past and loves to write fiction set in the nineteenth century, drawing on Victorian traditions of mystery, melodrama, and hauntings. She’s passionate about promoting quality indie publishing and great historical fiction, and writes feature articles for the Historical Novel Society, of which she’s an active member. She also participates in the work of the Alliance of Independent Authors and the 10-Minute Novelists, and was the originator of the Ethical Author Code and the 365K Challenge.

Book preview

1

HAWTHORN HALL

August 1883

Dearest Helena . . .

It’s from Lady Hastings, I said to Guttridge.

The remark was somewhat redundant since my lady’s maid was certainly familiar with my sister Blanche’s handwriting and had handed me the letter I had just opened.

How delightful, my lady. Guttridge arranged the rest of my post into a neat pile on the rosewood escritoire in Whitcombe House’s morning room. Should I leave you alone for a short while to read your letter? We were going to discuss your half-mourning wardrobe, but we can do that later.

I suppose you could come back in an hour.

I abandoned the dress and fashion journals Guttridge had assembled for me and tried to focus my gaze on Blanche’s difficult handwriting. But my mind was full of dresses: lavender, a soft gray that would bring out the color of my eyes, and every glorious shade of mauve. Anything but black. After two years in that depressing hue, I had been looking forward to discussing silk, lace, and the sort of jewelry suitable for a young widow. Still, a sister was a sister, and I hadn’t had a letter from Blanche for a long time.

Michaelmas . . . lease . . . retrench . . . A few words of the letter floated into view as I turned toward the retreating Guttridge. I hadn’t heard from Lady Hastings for so long I was beginning to think I’d insulted her somehow. Or that she’s so cross over the business with Lady Odelia she couldn’t bear to write.

It’s not my place to comment, of course, but I’ll admit I was wondering why there were no letters from Lady Hastings. Guttridge gave a small, expressive sniff. It certainly wasn’t her place to comment on Blanche’s habit of sending me long letters full of criticism and unwanted sisterly advice whenever the opportunity arose, and the sniff meant she was restraining her baser instincts. But Guttridge, who had been much involved in the final, harrowing episodes of what had become known in the gutter press as the Scandal of Sir Geraint’s Darlings, knew as well as I did that Odelia had certainly provided an excuse for Blanche’s most strenuous censure. There should have been at least six letters by now.

Guttridge departed quietly, leaving me alone in the soft golden glow of my yellow-painted morning room. It was a hot day, and patches of sunlight were already shivering on the ceiling, filtered through leaves above which I glimpsed a deep blue sky. I used Blanche’s letter to fan my face for a few moments, sighed with regret for my departed morning of comfort and entertainment, and read:

Dearest Helena,

I hope—indeed, I am sure—you can do me the favor I am about to ask of you. It is within your means, and as you will see, is of the utmost importance to me.

I sighed again, more deeply. The phrase it is within your means meant Blanche’s favor involved money. It would be nice if this sister of mine, fourth in order of birth in our family but first in rank since she’d married a marquess, could write merely to inquire how I was faring after the tempestuous events of the last few months. But Blanche was nothing if not self-centered.

Although, to be fair, self-centeredness is a Scott-De Quincy trait, I said out loud to my empty room. It was undeniable that none of my siblings had much regard for other people’s feelings, including mine. Why was I alone cursed with concern for others? It made me far too compliant—too generous, perhaps—and Blanche was particularly fond of exploiting this weakness.

I would like you to take out a lease on my behalf, Helena, dear.

My eyebrows rose; this was without a doubt to be Blanche’s most expensive request to date. Buying her a new dress was one thing; renting an entire house for her was generosity on quite a different scale. Of course, I alone among her siblings could afford such an expense.

I wish you to rent Hawthorn Hall for me, preferably to start at Michaelmas.

Mystery upon mystery, I murmured. Blanche loved Hawthorn Hall, which was in Broadmere, less than three miles from my house near Littleberry, but it belonged to friends of hers. Was she really proposing to live there from the end of September?

That way I will have a few weeks to find a tenant for my house here in Tunbridge Wells. Dederick will take over the lease of Hawthorn Hall from you once he is married . . .

Heavens. Was Blanche writing to me to announce her only child’s marriage? Perhaps she’d been too busy to write to me because she’d been securing a wife for him. I read on, faster than before.

Dederick will take over the lease of Hawthorn Hall from you once he is married, but until he finds the right young lady, I am keen to secure the Hall for my use and his before anyone else rents it. Until I have found a tenant for my own house, I do not, as I am sure you know, have the ready cash to take on a new lease, and there is some urgency. The dear Whetmores are devoted to me, but they are eager to leave the country before the cold weather, and I can’t be entirely sure they will wait if they receive another offer.

Now my interest was very much piqued. Why were the Whetmores leaving? But Blanche’s next sentence supplied the answer.

I am the first to know, I believe, that they have decided to spend the winter abroad for dear Fiona’s health, which has taken a turn for the worse. You know she has always been delicate. Furthermore, Dederick feels that if he must rusticate himself, Sussex—near you and the rest of the family—is as good a place to do it as anywhere. He is not fond of Tunbridge Wells.

No, and he wasn’t fond of Sussex either. My nephew Deddy, when not visiting some other member of the exclusive Marlborough House set, lived at his club in London. This looks not like a nuptial, I said aloud. Deddy wouldn’t be retreating to the country if he’d found a rich wife, would he? This looks more like creditors.

I sighed for the third time, even more heavily than before. We all knew Dederick’s debts were mounting. The last thing our family needed was more trouble.

But I needn’t have worried. Dederick has sufficient funds for the time being, but he has finally agreed that he absolutely must retrench this winter and is willing to spend some time in the country with his Mama. More importantly, the notion of preparing to look for a wife next Season is beginning to appeal to him at long last.

Well, desperately needing cash might induce a man to listen to his mother, and Blanche had been telling him for some time that his only solution to the monumental expense of being part of the Marlborough House set, that extremely high-living social elite connected with the Prince of Wales, was to acquire a rich wife. A very rich wife. Only the wealthiest aristocrats could live on that exalted pinnacle for long without ruining themselves. It was Blanche’s fault for encouraging the boy to aim high; no wonder Odelia’s nickname for her was Lady Ambition.

Position and fortune would be best, but fortune alone, and an amenable temper, might make for a good wife, if she is sensible enough to value the advantages of a match with a nobleman blessed with youth and good looks in addition to his excellent connections.

I nodded. Dederick was certainly blessed with youth and good looks. He had not yet attained his twenty-fourth birthday; he had been gifted with the legendary Scott-De Quincy air; moreover, he had inherited the title of marquess, only one step down from a dukedom, at the age of eighteen when his father had died. With that impressive title adding to his personal allure, it wasn’t surprising he had readily been accepted into a social set that lived in an endless, expensive whirl of travel, parties, and amusements, and his youth perhaps excused him from being so easily drawn into living above his means.

A pretty country house in our beautiful county, the family nearby, and my own title and connections will show Dederick off to his best advantage when we invite prospective brides to visit us in the balmy summer months, when all Sussex is bright with flowers and quaint charm.

So Blanche wanted a house where she and Dederick could entertain properly. Well, that made some sense.

There is, of course, the scandal, but Dederick and I are blameless when it comes to Odelia’s behavior, and I have done my best to distance myself while our shameless sister remained at your house. You naturally understand why this is important.

Hmph. But now I grasped the main reason why I hadn’t heard from Blanche.

Your own behavior appears to have been eccentric in the extreme—Lady Helena Investigates indeed, the very idea—but I have a notion that having the investigating lady nearby will add a certain piquancy, and it is well-known you were unaware of Odelia’s scurrilous behavior until the truth was forced upon you.

I groaned. How well-known? And it was like Blanche to throw that newspaper headline in my face. Still, Odelia had done the right thing and gone abroad, and I supposed the gossip would die down eventually.

And then there is the matter of the paintings for your drawing room, which are the object of curiosity of a different kind. Sir Geraint is looked upon more kindly than Odelia, as might be expected, and this crowning work of his career is eagerly anticipated.

Yes, I said to my terrier, Scotty, who was snoozing at my feet. "What’s sauce for the goose is definitely not sauce for the gander in society." It rankled somewhat that Sir Geraint, just as culpable as Odelia, was still received almost everywhere, while our sister had been obliged to retreat to Rome for the family’s sake, lest we too found doors shut in our faces. Why were men always so more readily excused? Yet I too received him, and had not canceled the half-finished commission for a splendid set of paintings for Whitcombe House’s drawing room.

I hope to hear from you by return that you have put matters in hand with your man of business and that he will deliver an offer to the Whetmores shortly. I know it is a lot to ask that you should advance such a sum of money on my behalf, but I also know my request will cause you no hardship. I am sure, being the good sister you are, you will readily agree to help your loving,

Blanche

I folded Blanche’s letter and pushed it down into a pocket, then took a moment to remove a speck of something or the other from the fine black wool of my dress, now edged with black satin ribbon to indicate I was in the last three months of my mourning. Black, I had found, showed absolutely everything.

Not that I resented showing my grief for my late husband, Justin, of course. I rose, pressing my fingers to my lips and touching them to the photograph on my desk, a rather nice one Justin had had taken before he proposed to me a mere five years ago.

The morning room was becoming increasingly warm. Perhaps I should go to the library and summon Guttridge to discuss dresses? But I had lost interest in clothes. Where could I go? The sun would not be on the drawing room this early, and the artisans and workmen would not arrive to continue their work there for another forty minutes, so I could be private and cool. I needed to think.

I took the drawing room key from a drawer and turned my steps toward the room destined to become Whitcombe House’s showpiece, followed by the click of claws as Scotty trailed behind me, sniffing into various corners as he proceeded.

Yes, I could think here, within sight of the sea, brilliant turquoise in the summer sunlight. Within sight of the French coast, which showed as a vague bumpiness and haze on the far horizon.

The large room was quiet and cool, stripped of its furniture and finishings, smelling faintly and pleasantly of sawdust and linseed oil. I sank onto the long window seat, now bare of its cushions and covered with sheeting, and caressed Scotty as he sprang up to settle near me, his head on his paws.

I’ll do what Blanche wants, I suppose. After all, what else do I have to do? I asked my dog. Wait for Fortier to come back to Sussex, if he ever does? Perhaps I’d be better off with something to keep me busy. I think I’m brooding.

Deep brown eyes stared back at me from a whiskery face, and I laughed—at myself as much as at my beloved terrier. Yes, you’re right. I have some peace at last, so I ought to be able to settle down in it. But I can’t.

It was only three weeks since Sir Geraint’s son, Edmund, had been hanged by the neck until he was dead. Ten days since Odelia had departed for Paris, then Rome, for an indefinite period. A month since I had said goodbye to Armand Fortier in his father’s house in London, and he had kissed me.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. I realized I was running a finger back and forth across my lips while my other hand had found Blanche’s letter and was squeezing it as hard as I could.

I pulled out the folded paper, the muscles of my jaw tightening. I had no claim on Fortier. He would leave for France as soon as his father died—and almost certainly bring back a woman who had passed as his wife in that country since the war with the Prussians thirteen years ago. And a boy who called him Father. Would he even want to introduce these people to the scandal-smeared Scott-De Quincys? He might remain in London. After all, he would inherit his father’s house there and could hardly live any longer with his sister and brother-in-law in Littleberry when he had a wife and child to look after.

The light reflecting off the crystalline sea hurt my eyes. No doubt that was why my head ached and my eyelashes were wet when I closed my eyes to escape the glare.

I could hear voices, one of them that of Dunnam, my butler. Scotty made a gruff noise to show he was alert to the new arrivals. I rose, running my fingers quickly over my eyes.

It’s Dunnam and the workmen, Scotty. He’s come to let them in.

I patted my dog reassuringly, deciding to improve the shining hour by questioning the foreman at length about the work accomplished and yet to be done. I would then write to my man of business, as Blanche had asked, instructing him to make an offer to the Whetmores to lease Hawthorn Hall. Perhaps I would summon up a shred of gratitude toward Blanche for giving me something to do. Family should come before foolish hope, before brooding on the past, and before fretting about the future. I turned my back on France, squaring my shoulders to meet the demands of the day.

2

AN UNEXPECTED GUEST

The Whetmores seized upon my offer with alacrity. Before ten days had passed, I had visited Hawthorn Hall to refresh my memory of the property and commiserate with Fiona Whetmore on her failing health. The Hall was a pretty Jacobean manor house close to the center of Broadmere, an odd little town composed of a picturesque central area inhabited by such gentry as had not moved away, with a collection of crumbling cottages farther out, some military dwellings from the Napoleonic Wars, and an assortment of ruins poking out from the outlying fields. It was near enough to Littleberry that I could see it from my house, perched secretively on its tree-shrouded rock, mourning the loss of the harbor that had once assured its prosperity, its once-great church a half ruin.

I had known the Whetmores, and Hawthorn Hall, since my childhood. Sir Andrew Whetmore had improved the Hall considerably in the last fifty years, and it looked sound and comfortable, arranged by Fiona with good, if rather staid, taste. It was set well back from the road on four acres of land, with a lodge—reserved for the Whetmores’ use should they return to England—and a walled kitchen garden, in addition to an orchard and adjoining field, both rented by a local farmer for his sheep. The Whetmores were fond of Blanche, who was far closer to their age than I was, and would, I was sure, be good landlords. They were the center of Broadmere’s small circle of aristocratic society, and Blanche, as a marchioness, could easily step into their place in the little town.

The Hall will do well for Blanche, I told my nephew Thomas as we took tea in the green drawing room. This large room had been Thomas’s domain ever since he had moved in with me at Whitcombe, but since he was more of a brother to me than a nephew, I sought him out whenever I needed company. She and Dederick won’t exactly be able to entertain on a grand scale since there are just eight bedrooms, but they can make a reasonable show. The reception rooms are quite large. I suppose I’ll help with the arrangement of them.

Thomas grinned. I imagine Aunt B-Blanche is counting on that. You have the knack of getting the most out of a p-property. I hear from M-Mama that Uncle M-Michael is p-pleased with what you’ve done to Scott House.

Yes. I smiled ruefully. I have improved Michael’s London house for him, and in doing so have lost his wife, my closest confidante, for the entire parliamentary session. How very ironic. My brother Michael had decided that, since Odelia no longer lived at Scott House and I had improved its comforts, he would bring Julia and the children to London instead of staying at his club, bachelor-fashion.

And you’ve lost your new friend, Mrs. D-Dermody, to London as well. I suppose she’ll be b-back once her father p-passes?

She says as much in her letters. I heard far more from Gabrielle Dermody than from her brother, Armand Fortier, and that bothered me. I changed the subject.

Tell me about your forthcoming career as an undergraduate. Thomas had decided to become a clergyman, which involved a belated attempt to earn a degree. Isn’t Prince Albert Victor going to Trinity College this year? I watched as Thomas heaped more sandwiches onto his plate. "Gerry will be pleased to have you at the same college as the Prince of Wales’s son."

I d-don’t know why; I have no intention of c-cultivating his acquaintance. Thomas frowned. Besides, I’m n-n-not going up this Michaelmas term.

Having only one good hand, Thomas was in the habit of putting his plate on his lap to eat; I clicked my tongue at Scotty, who was eyeing it rather too closely, and waved my dog back into the far corner of the sofa.

After Easter, then? You must be nearly ready. Thomas had been learning Greek and Latin with a tutor.

M-maybe. Perhaps M-Michaelmas next year. Winship says a little more study w-w-would help me g-get the most out of university.

I sipped my tea, gazing at my handsome nephew. And every delay extends Winship’s term of employment.

Cynic. Thomas’s beautiful smile lit up his face. As a m-matter of fact, P-Papa wants Winship to spend a t-t-term or two at Trinity with m-me. Just until I settle in.

Very grand. A private tutor, just like the prince. I suspected the delay, and possibly the tutor, had more to do with Gerry’s tendency to underestimate her son, but at least the prince would set a precedent.

Thomas took a healthy gulp of tea. So I’ll be here to see Aunt B-Blanche become the châtelaine of Hawthorn Hall. M-M-Mama says she’s already sent letters of self-congratulation to all the b-bores of B-Broadmere.

I snorted with amusement. Gerry didn’t really put it that way, did she? If you’re going to be a clergyman, you had better learn to speak more tactfully. See if you can rephrase that sentence as if you were already in holy orders.

Our conversation became rather foolish for a few minutes as we imitated the kind of clergyman who appeared in novels, and we ended up in a fit of giggles. Scotty, never one to pass up an opportunity, brought an end to our frolics by stealing two sandwiches from Thomas’s carelessly abandoned plate.

All joking aside, Gerry will be glad to have you close a little longer, I think, I said as I returned from banishing my dog to the floor, taking his place on the sofa next to Thomas. She’s grown more fond of you lately, I swear. She’s beginning to cluck over your future ecclesiastical career like a broody hen. She probably imagines you as a bishop.

Heaven forfend. Thomas put his good arm around my shoulders and hugged me briefly. D-don’t you start thinking I’ll have a splendid c-career. I really d-don’t want one. Just a small church, a simple vicarage, and p-p-p-perhaps, one day, a wife who won’t mind half a m-man for a husband. After all, Mr. C-Collins was a complete fool, b-but he readily found a wife.

I smiled in appreciation at the reference to Pride and Prejudice, but it saddened me to hear my handsome, kind, intelligent nephew refer to himself as half a man. I opened my mouth to refute the assertion, but Scotty’s whine of welcome made me realize a footman had entered. Yes, Robert?

Lady Hastings has arrived, m’lady. Robert ignored Scotty, who had raced to sniff enthusiastically at his well-shined shoes. Mrs. Eason is having her ladyship’s things taken to her usual room. Lady Hastings says to tell you she will be with you as soon as she’s taken off her hat.

Thomas waited until Robert had left before expressing his surprise. Were you expecting Aunt Blanche? he asked me.

I was not. I rose to my feet, dusting myself down with my hands and instinctively patting my hair to make sure it was in place. With Gerry and Blanche, more than with my other sisters, I always felt the need to present myself as well as possible or risk their criticism. I thought Blanche was staying in Tunbridge Wells till nearly the end of September.

Perhaps she’s decided to attend your birthday dinner for M-Mama after all. Thomas began stacking plates and cups on the tea tray, eating some more of the remaining sandwiches as he did so. Will she upset your seating arrangements? She’ll make us an odd number, won’t she?

That doesn’t matter. It’s only family, and there are already more women than men. I turned. I think I can hear her. Goodness, it’s not like Blanche to come downstairs so quickly.

I moved toward the door, followed by Scotty. The green drawing room was long and relatively narrow, and we had been sitting in the middle of it, in front of the empty fireplace. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thomas rise to his feet, a movement that caused him a little difficulty because of his lame leg and withered arm.

The door opened, the footman announced Lady Hastings, and the tall, rather stout figure of my sister swept into the room. Ignoring my barking dog, she kissed my cheeks—or rather, saluted the air beside them—before stepping back.

Blanche, Marchioness of Hastings—a title she would hold until Dederick married—had eyes of a somewhat cold pale blue. As always, her critical gaze assessed me from head to toe before she passed on to Thomas, to whom she gave the tentative embrace the family so often bestowed on him, as if he might break. Thomas showed her to the most comfortable seat, where she ensconced herself without paying much attention to him.

I’m having them bring more tea, I said, and at my nod the footman stepped forward to take the tray. Perhaps some little cakes? I smiled at my sister. A sweet tooth was one characteristic we shared.

Blanche did not smile back. Indeed, there was something tense about her whole bearing. We made small talk as the footman left, but I found myself making most of the effort in the conversation without garnering any clues as to why she had arrived so unexpectedly.

It didn’t take Thomas long to deduce his presence was the problem. After a few minutes, he announced he had things to get on with and took his leave, taking Scotty with him. There was then another delay as the footman brought fresh tea and petits fours, but finally the door shut and we were alone.

I poured tea in silence. Outside, I could hear a peacock’s mournful cry, the raucous calling of seagulls farther off, and bees buzzing among the flowers. A slight breeze stirred the air from an open window; the green drawing room, being on the north side of the house, was pleasantly cool.

There. I used the small silver tongs to add a slice of lemon and handed Blanche her cup. We won’t be overheard. I had correctly interpreted her glance toward both ends of the room to see the doors were properly shut. Would you like me to have them close the window? Or perhaps you could try. The handle’s rather high for me to reach.

Blanche raised her eyebrows at the suggestion that she, a marchioness, might close a window, but in a moment she appeared to forget my error. She leaned forward, speaking in an undertone.

I’m going to need your help with a . . . a dilemma, Helena. I don’t know whom else to ask—and, after all, you helped Odelia. She frowned. "Although I’m not at all sure you didn’t make things worse, interfering as you did. I have very mixed feelings about your drawing room, given its connection with the scandal."

As do we all. She meant the principal drawing room, of course. But in my defense, the work was already well underway, and undoing the commission would have been highly complicated and probably just as much remarked upon. We all—the whole family—thought, in the end, that we had better just make the best of it.

Hmmm. Blanche shrugged. It doesn’t seem to be doing a great deal of harm, from what my friends say. A little disapproval here and there, but of course Sir Geraint is a man of such genius everyone seems inclined to forgive him.

There will always be gossiping tongues, whatever we do, I reminded her. Ignoring them is the Scott-De Quincy way, isn’t it? In any event, O formally broke with Sir Geraint before she left, and as far as I can tell, he’s leading a monk-like existence at Edenholme. That’s his house in Lower Broadmere.

"I know." Blanche frowned again, in annoyance this time.

Of course you do. I sighed inwardly. Work on the paintings is advancing well, as is the construction of the special frames. Does your visit today involve O or Sir Geraint or—or the decorative arts?

Don’t be facetious. Blanche’s plump lips pursed into an expression I knew well, one she might not make if she realized how it made vertical lines appear around her mouth. She would turn forty-one in November, and as with Gerry, I had no memory of her living at Hyrst with us. I had not yet reached the age of three when she married her marquess, Francis, and Dederick had been born before my fourth birthday. In many ways, I barely knew either of them.

I’m not trying to amuse myself at your expense, I said with as much patience as I could muster. Something’s worrying you, and I do wish you’d get on and tell me. I’d be happy to help if I can. It’s not Hawthorn Hall, is it? I have matters well in hand there.

It’s not the Hall. Blanche’s face seemed to crumple for a moment. I caught a glimpse of a different woman—older and more anxious than she usually looked—but then she appeared to get a grip on herself. "The Hall will allow Dederick to make a good show of it before and after the Season. Several of my friends in Broadmere have promised good hunting for his guests, even if they’re new people. They probably will be new people; I’m thinking of Americans, of course."

Of course. Americans, as Gerry so often remarked, were everywhere these days, fueled by fortunes from the grain and cattle that had taken away so much of England’s trade and by the railway and property money created by their own fabulous expansion westward, an entire country building itself before our eyes. They came to Europe to buy up its clothes, its art, its grand estates, and, increasingly, the heirs to its noble titles.

If Dederick stops moving in exalted circles for a little while, Blanche continued, he should be able to afford a decent carriage and a matched pair of bays. He already has two excellent hunters and two beautiful horses for cutting a dash on Rotten Row during the Season.

He’s certainly handsome, and one can’t fault his title. I smiled encouragingly at Blanche. From what I hear, he’s an expert rider and a good shot. Does he dance well?

Like an angel. At last, a real smile spread over Blanche’s face. "I’m hoping to find a girl who’s in London for her first Season, perhaps one whose parents are looking for an aristocratic lady to present her at court. Apparently, that’s a marvelous way to get oneself acquainted with the Americans. Her parents will often buy this lady a new dress or two as a sort of thank-you gift. A new arrival, who hasn’t yet formed any opinions, will be the best catch. Dederick can dazzle her with his personal attributes and her parents with his connections to the royal family."

Her voice had risen to its usual stridency as she set out her plans, but then the quite different look stole back over her face and she leaned toward me. Her next words were spoken so softly I had to pay close attention to catch them.

But there’s a problem, and this is where I need your help. I daren’t tell Gerry.

3

LADIES DO NOT USUALLY KNOW SUCH THINGS

S o tell me. I also lowered my voice and leaned in confidentially. You know I’ll be discreet.

It’s too horrid. I can’t think where to begin. To my surprise and dismay, Blanche’s eyes suddenly brimmed and tears trickled down her cheeks. Oh, I can’t—I can’t. If Gerry were ever to find out . . .

For the first time, I felt genuine alarm. "What does it have to do with Gerry? And what would she do anyway? She loves you. The two of you have always been closer to one another than to any of the rest of us. The twins